


Just Pretend

by urfriendlyneighborhoodpan



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Consensual, F/M, huehuehue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 02:46:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6593584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urfriendlyneighborhoodpan/pseuds/urfriendlyneighborhoodpan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just pretend you're his girlfriend for a little while." (oikiyo)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> Requested on tumblr, they asked for: "Oikawa's teammates annoyed of his fangirls at practice convince their manager, Kiyoko, and Oikawa to pretend to be dating. Oikawa getting knocked down a few pegs by her... and him loving that." 
> 
> So. Enjoy~

“Just pretend,” one of the older members says, holding his hands up as if to appease her. “Just pretend you’re his girlfriend for a little while.”

One of the biggest ramifications of having Oikawa on this team is the amount of attention he draws, and his inability to drive the hopefuls away. She had overheard him once mention he wasn’t particularly interested in dating at the moment and she remembered feeling sorry for the girls that pined after him, if only because he was giving them a false sense of security in reciprocating their attention. It tended to distract the team as a whole, and there were days the entire practice was thrown off by their presence. It was beginning to tax on everyone’s nerves and it’s showing now. But Oikawa is an asset, he pulls the team together effortlessly and no one can deny his talent. There is no sense in cutting him when he is the hardest working of them all.

They settle for this. Today the gym is alight with the golden sunset and there is a bulk of a shadow at the entrance, these doe-eyed girls, and he is standing across the way discussing some technique to a younger teammate. She has an interview for a job she’s been wanting this weekend and there is a stack of homework waiting for her at home; she cannot possibly balance all of this and this scheme but these boys, desperate and tired, look to her with sagged shoulders and defeated eyes and she cannot possibly refuse them this.

“Please, Shimizu-san,” they implore. “We can’t concentrate with them here.”

.x.

She brings it up to him as they are shutting down the gym.

It isn’t like it was in high school. Nobody lingers to share some cheap food from the convenience store; they all hurry in different directions to start studying or join their closer friends for dinner, and so she is left reeling, lingering by the door as he slips on his shoes outside.

He starts, straightening up stiffly to look at her with wide, confused eyes. The night is cool on her skin and she’s surprised none of the girls waited until after to coerce him into walking them back to their dorms.

“You and I,” she clarifies when he can’t seem to find the right words to respond. “Let’s pretend we’re a couple, just until your admirers stop interrupting practice sessions.”

There’s a cricket picking up a song now from somewhere in the shrubs, and he slowly pushes his hands into his pockets. He’s grown taller some, and every day he seems to fill out his frame more and more. His shoulders, his muscled arms, his sharp jawline and focused eyes. He considers her for a second, as if unsure of her sincerity. “And once they do?” he asks, and his voice has certainly grown deeper.

It had once been light, perpetually lilted. “Nothing. We’ll go right back to where we used to be.”

He smiles the sort of smile that could make anyone swoon. “I’m wounded, Shimizu-chan. What if you fall in love with me?”

She hardly bats a lash. “You act as if you have a chance. If they hadn’t asked me to do this, I wouldn’t have approached you about it at all.”

His eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment his smile looks almost genuine. “I’ll hold you to that.”

.x.

Oikawa has had girlfriends before, but never anything substantial. She has heard before somewhere that it had to with his interests, or perhaps his inability to commit to more than one thing at once. Whichever the case may be, he has more experience with these things than she. He doesn’t mention what he’s done before in his previous relationships, but when he bumps into her in the hallway in the hour she has between her lectures he perks up and asks, “Wanna get lunch together?”

They get their things in the cafeteria and he offers to buy her food, brushes off her concerns and leads her to the most populated section of the courtyard. He makes a show of pulling off his hoodie and laying it out on the bench for her to sit on, and leans against her side as they eat. They say very little, but there is something intimate about this. His thigh brushes her knee and she can smell his cologne, his clean skin and freshly washed clothes. It is pleasant and unnerving and when she idly mentions needing to head to class he smoothly offers to walk her there. And right before they part he leans down to brush his lips so very lightly against her forehead.

She isn’t very much interested in gossip, but she hears some girl say, with no clear attempt to quiet her voice, “Some _slut_ tricked Oikawa-san into bed with her…”

Kiyoko has slept with a handful of people, and not exclusively with men. If she were the type, she’d pride herself in saying she has never allowed these experiences to turn negative, and all of them had been of her own volition. She knows telling anyone this would only serve to garner disdain, but she knows even more telling them she hasn’t laid a single finger on that man is a lost cause.

And so she lifts her chin, she sets her jaw, she brushes past them like they’re not even there and she knows the mere idea alone will eat at them without her needing to say anything.

.x.

She doesn’t anticipate all the backlash but she can’t say she’s surprised. He doesn’t seem aware, but his group of admirers is more plentiful than his regular audience would suggest. It is the third week and they have made it a habit to share lunch at the busiest areas in order to get their point across; they have taken to talking more frequently and she learns he is studying for some business position in Tokyo, something complicated and impressive enough she cannot help murmuring her praises. They aren’t exactly friends, but she does not dread running into him anymore.

She is standing in the shade of a tree opening an email alerting her of her upcoming orientation, breathing in softly in elation as her future unfolds before her eyes so neatly, when a slight figure appears across from her. It brings with it a suffocating cloud of sugar sweet perfume that Kiyoko has a hard time not recoiling from, snapping her eyes from the message to the face of a heavily painted up girl. From the way she holds herself, she likely studies something in theater and takes this very serious.

She tosses a section of caramel curls over her shoulder and has the gall to ask, “Is he _fucking_ you?”

Kiyoko cannot possibly mistake this for anything else. Oikawa has made no mention of his love life, but she cannot bring herself to believe he’s ventured into it much recently. He seems entirely too focused on his studies and his matches that she honestly cannot say he has the mind to think about much else.

Kiyoko is not insulted. She has been in this sort of position before and she assumes it will not be the last. If anyone will have to deal with the reception of this relationship, she’d rather it be her.

“That’s none of your business,” Kiyoko settles for, pocketing her phone and smoothly stepping around the girl and continuing toward her next lecture.

.x.

The first month, and she mentions something about faking an anniversary.

He is experienced at these, and he idly brings up a time he’d celebrated each week mark before each month. She makes a face and he spares a smile.

He finds her the next day despite their conflicting schedule that day and offers her a bouquet of roses, they are fragrant and bright and he looks utterly pleased with himself when she points out, “These will be dead within the day.”

He takes her hand delicately in his and kisses her knuckles softly. “Only for you, my sweet.”

And then all but sprints across campus to get to his class in time.

.x.

There are less girls at the gym now, and those that remain spend the whole of it glowering at her specifically. She busies herself with bringing the boys their water and towels, immersing herself entirely in a conversation with the captain about the next matchup. And as she goes around tossing back the volleyballs that had gone out of bounds, she is forced to approach the girls despite her better efforts. The last ball, she aims straight for Oikawa, and as soon as he smiles at her she hears the delicate clearing of a throat behind her.

She knows following these girls outside is a mistake long before she agrees to it, and she knows submitting herself to their interrogations will only end badly for her. But the boys are doing better than they have all month and it is more than she can ask for. And so stands with her back to the wall and listens, does not bother responding as they begin to speak over one another.

But the question always arises, beyond the rest, and it becomes clear to her what these girls are _really_ after.

“Is he _fucking_ you?”

Kiyoko doesn’t know how to respond to this. It is the second week of their second month and nothing has changed much. They eat their lunches together sometimes, he walks her to class, he kisses her forehead, and it’s all entirely systematic. Every now and again they’ll hold hands, but let go as soon as they don’t have to anymore and wipe the sweat from their palms. And every now and again he’ll drape an arm around her shoulders, or pull her in by the waist. No one hears him mumbling his questions for consent for any of these things. Their conversations never stray beyond specific things, and most times it never goes past volleyball. They are more like casual friends, and there are days she almost looks forward to seeing him. He treats her lunch some days, and she treats him others. But as soon as the weekend hits, they bid their farewells and go their separate ways. And at the end of each practice, he walks her to the gate and squeezes her shoulder lightly.

No, they aren’t even remotely _fucking_. Despite all his teasing, he never steps past his boundaries. It is akin to being held by an old friend, something like Sugawara from high school. It is warm, it is comfortable, and it is entirely innocent. He makes no mention of wanting to go any further and this sits just fine with her.

“That is none of your business,” she says again, and makes to move back into the gym. The boys will be needing water soon.

One hand slams into the wall beside her head and she is crowded in, locked by these seething eyes that burn holes right through her own skin. “He isn’t, is he?” the girl hisses. “Anyone in your position would be bragging by now.”

“I’m not like that,” Kiyoko says, composing herself. “I’d prefer to keep the sort of thing to myself—”

“Bullshit,” another girl cuts in. “You know a friend of mine slept with him last semester.”

“I don’t see how that matters—”

“She wouldn’t stop talking about it for weeks, and you know what she said?”

Kiyoko doesn’t think answering at this point would matter. She is becoming restless. These boys would forget and work themselves to a stupor if she doesn’t remind them to rehydrate. They get like children.

“She said he’s a good fuck,” the girl continues, leaning in until Kiyoko can smell her breath. “She said he’s so good, she couldn’t even walk afterward.”

“That sounds like an awful exaggeration,” Kiyoko deadpans, and the girls draw back in surprise.

“You’re so cruel, sweetheart,” Oikawa laments from the doors. He is leaning against the wall nonchalantly, arms folded and lips hair-pinned at the ends by a coy little simper. He levels her with an affectionate gaze and she wonders if it’s really just a game at this point. “After all I do for you, you talk me down like this?”

Kiyoko recovers quickly, weaving around the girls. “Arrogance does not become you,” she says, but that in itself can be debated. “Are you thirsty?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he says silkily, and she spares him a look. “The others sent me out here to retrieve you. They’re thinking of setting up a practice round with another team and we’d very much like your valuable input.”

She brushes past him, and fully expects him to trail after her. But when she pauses to glance at him, he’s still leaning out the door. Just as she decides to continue toward the boys, he pushes away from the entrance and spins on his heel. That pleasant smile he always wears slips off to a more pensive expression, what he drops as soon as he meets her gaze. She waits until he’s a few feet away to ask, “What did you tell them?”

“Nothing of importance,” he says. “But hopefully they won’t be bothering you for a while.”

.x.

“Many of them follow me on stuff,” he brings up to her over their ritual lunch meeting. He’s sharing a bag of chips with her, and doesn’t really react when she reaches over to steal a bite of his sandwich. “Maybe it’s because I haven’t posted any pictures of us that they don’t believe we’re a thing.”

“I don’t want to go that far,” Kiyoko sighs, dusting off her hands. “I haven’t necessarily told anyone else besides my closer friends. If the boys from Karasuno saw…”

His smile broadens, unsurprisingly. “Even better.”

.x.

Her apartment is less than a mile out, more nestled into the city. She leads him up the stairs to her place and allows him in before her, and while she searches about for some snacks to give him, she notices him wandering into the living room. There are a few knickknacks here or there, but he so very easily finds the photo of her as a child. She pauses to watch him drape himself across her sofa and hold the frame right next to his face, stretching out his other arm to snap a picture of himself.

He’s given her all of his accounts to follow, and so a second later her phone vibrates with notifications. And she finds he’s posted the same photo of himself in three different places saying, “ _Look how cute my gf was when she was little!_ ”

In one of them specifically, he adds, “ _What happened lol_.”

She glances up to find him smirking at her and she almost catches herself returning it.

“Are you hungry?” she asks instead.

“How ‘bout we order pizza? My treat this time.”

They’re in the middle of picking a movie to watch when the doorbell rings, and he returns to her with the box of pizza and some drinks. She’s taking a bite out of her pizza when she feels him slide an arm over her shoulders and lean tight against her. He tilts his head into hers and snaps a picture as soon as she looks up, but he stays wrapped around her as he uploads this one, too.

“I bet it’s impossible to get an unflattering picture of you,” he murmurs, and for a second she can’t focus on anything else but his clean scent, his warm body, how his voice rumbles through her. “You look lovely in every one.”

She’s hardly gathered her wits about her when she feels his lips on her temple, this slow and soft kiss that nearly makes her drop her slice of pizza. He snaps another picture and she struggles for air for a second.

He breathes in as he turns his head away, and gently comments, “Ah, see? Stunning as always.”

“I bet they say the same about you,” she replies, and reaches out for her drink.

He laughs, and it sounds so pleasant. “We’re quite the photogenic couple, aren’t we?”

The movie they’ve put on holds very little interest, he spends the whole of it pulling her in closer and nuzzling her and taking pictures of her when she least expects it. He playfully mourns each one for her beauty and she doesn’t know how or when, but suddenly she’s curled into his chest and they’re laying across the couch. It is so comfortable she considers closing her eyes, but then he mentions how many comments they’re getting and she quickly takes out her phone to check if her boys had found them.

“They don’t seem very pleased,” Oikawa points out, apparently having found the same comments as she. “Did they have a crush on you?”

“Sweet boys,” she sighs, sitting up to reach for another slice. “They’ll give me an earful the next time I see them.”

He folds in behind her, and nudges against the back of her neck. “Won’t that be nice?”

He doesn’t take a picture this time.

.x.

This is easy to fall into. She cannot track his behavior anymore, and the deeper they go into this relationship, the less control she expresses. She invites him over to her apartment more and more often, it is the third week of their fourth month and she has two teddy bears he’s given her decorating her bookcase. He takes pictures often, and always croons about how pretty she is right into her ear. It all accumulates, those girls don’t bother her so much but they still have those looks, those burning glares that bring shivers straight down her back. She has never been so thoroughly despised by another person, and multiplied by a dozen it settles in her gut a festering thing.

And so she invites him over to her apartment more and more, and the day she shoves this straight past platonic is the day it all comes apart at the seams.

He lies whining and pleading underneath her, and there has never been a more satisfying sight. She has his shirt pushed up under his armpits and his jeans halfway down his thighs and they are on her living room floor, there is tea boiling on the stove and the news going on TV and she bounces on his cock quick and steady. He is throbbing inside of her and his teeth are grit tight, his eyes glazed and face red and brow furrowed and when she falls hard he cries out a little, claws at the wood flooring underneath him. Their skin sounds sharp and wet and loud between them and she is completely naked, braces a hand on his chest to keep him in place and tips her head back. He whispers something, soft and reverent, and it brings a strange shiver down her spine. She moves onto her knees and leans forward, lets him rise up to kiss her face and rolls her hips.

He is so pretty.

The kettle whistles from the kitchen and she lets out a breath, extracts herself from him and very easily gets to her feet. He is still so hard, glistening in her fluids and panting for her warmth. He lies frozen for a moment, as if unsure she had just done that, and then pushes himself up to watch her move into the kitchen to pour them tea.

“Sh—Shimizu-chan?” he asks, voice tight and confused. His length is darkened by blood now, so aroused it must border on painful. And he does look lovely, disheveled and breathless and wanting. He’s trembling some, oddly small under this new sensation. He’s never had something denied of him.

“Do you take honey with yours?” she asks, mixing herself a cup. “Or would you—”

“Please,” he breathes, and seems to consider using his hand to finish himself.

She places the tray, tea and sweets and all, on the coffee table nearby. She sets one foot on either side of him and he leans back again, gazing up at her with these eyes—they speak volumes, dark and burning—and he starts just a slight when she lowers down on her knees, just above his shoulders. “Me first,” is all she says, and his eyes brighten with understanding.

And Oikawa is good with his mouth.

.x.

Perhaps it had not been an exaggeration.

He _is_ a good fuck, generous in all the ways that count. He lets her set the pace and doesn’t stop until she’s coming, breathless and whining the whole way down. He doesn’t ask for more, but he never refuses her. Melts underneath her touches and takes everything that she gives him. Sometimes he trembles when she kisses him, sometimes he looks so humble underneath her it moves something in her chest.

They never mention this outside her apartment. They are the picture of innocence, of perfectly complacent and blissful contentment. Somebody somewhere comments they are an enviable couple, that they seem so utterly satisfied with one another it borders on unsettling. He squeezes her hand during practice and lingers a second longer when he kisses her forehead before her lecture. Some nights he accompanies her home.

And sometimes, he doesn’t leave until the early morning, wearing the same exact clothes and inexplicably freshly showered.

They meet in the middle.

On her bed, or the couch. The floor or the counters. He is tender and giving and it leaves her reeling every time.

And when they’re in her bed, catching their breaths in this beating afterglow, he sometimes tells her, “ _It hurts_.”

He sometimes tells her, “ _You are too beautiful_.”

“ _You are too good for me_.”

And that hurts, too, she thinks.

.x.


End file.
